


a shoebox of photographs with sepia-toned loving

by fireblazie



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asexuality, M/M, Nurses, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:12:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireblazie/pseuds/fireblazie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve, and Bucky—</p>
<p>It’s kind of complicated.</p>
<p>(A modern AU in which Steve and Bucky are nurses who share an apartment, and nothing has changed.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a shoebox of photographs with sepia-toned loving

Steve, and Bucky—

It’s kind of complicated.

 

*

 

The thing with Bucky-and-Steve (Steve-and-Bucky) is…

If you ask Bucky, Steve was— _is_ —a stupid, punk kid at heart, who didn’t have a single ounce of self-preservation in his bones, who went around sticking his nose where it didn’t belong and didn’t even know how to properly fucking _breathe_ , goddamn, and got into entirely too many fights, wanting to stick up for the little guys, even if he was the littlest of them all, idiot—

And if you ask Steve, Bucky was— _is_ —an overprotective asshole, who never let him finish his own fights, who never understood what it felt like to be the runt of the litter, who  never needed to be saved, and _damn it_ , Bucky, didn’t he say that he had him on the ropes?

The long and the short of it is this: they met as young boys, fell into a fast friendship that surprised everyone else but themselves, and when everybody else left (their fathers, both in the Army, dying in a land too far from home; Bucky’s mother in a senseless accident involving a drunk driver; Steve’s wasting away in a hospital bed after years of failed treatments), clung to each other and took care of each the way they’d always done, no questions asked.

Steve-and-Bucky, Bucky-and-Steve—

Doesn’t really matter, does it?

 

*

 

Mondays go like this:

Bucky wakes up at the first rays of sunlight, a habit engrained in him from the two years he spent in the Army. He is quiet as he roams around the apartment, swallowing down a cup of coffee and pulling on fresh clothes for his morning run.

Steve wakes up not too much later, the sounds of Bucky’s morning routine pulling him from slumber. It is a familiar and comfortable thing, and he rolls out of bed to accompany Bucky on their usual jog.

They stop for breakfast at a small sandwich shop afterwards, a small hole-in-the-wall sort of place that only the locals know about. Bucky orders a Reuben, his usual, thick slices of corned beef piled high between two pieces of rye, while Steve bites into a blueberry bagel. The coffee here isn’t the best, but it’s passable, and they always grab one of the newspapers and skim through the headlines, laugh at the comics, and argue (loudly) over the crossword.

By the time they finish, it’s lunch, and depending on their moods, it goes one of two ways: one, they go back home and spend the rest of the day indoors; two, they venture out some more, crossing Brooklyn Bridge for no reason other than that they want to, watching a movie, being stupid and wasting the day away just because they can.

Dinner, though, dinner they always have at home together, and Bucky cooks because Steve can’t (though not for lack of trying), and they kick back on the couch, watching whatever’s on TV that night, or a rented movie from Redbox, or something gleaned from less than legal means on Bucky’s laptop.

Steve always turns in just a little bit past midnight, brushes his teeth and gets undressed, gulps down one last glass of water for the night before heading back to his room.

“’Night, Buck,” he says. Bucky glances up from his phone with a quick smile.

“’Night,” Bucky says, and Steve goes to his room, closes the door, turns off the lights, and climbs in beneath the sheets.

Ten minutes later, he hears the unmistakable sounds of Bucky getting ready for bed: the water running, the toilet flushing, bare feet padding across wooden floors, and his door across the hall quietly shutting.

Steve closes his eyes, and sleeps.

 

 

*

 

They both work nights at the children’s hospital, which was never the path they’d imagined themselves taking. Steve had wanted to join the Army, originally, but they’d turned him down. His weak lungs had done it—which he’d known in his head, logically, but still hurt to hear, officially.

Bucky, though, Bucky had enlisted when he was eighteen without a problem at all, doing two tours in Afghanistan until getting shot in the left shoulder, effectively ending his military career. He came home a different man, a little quieter, a little angrier. Steve gave him his space, but was never too far away, at his side the moment he screamed awake from a nightmare, a stubborn and solid presence when his mind went to a place Steve couldn’t follow.

It was around then that he’d quietly started taking more classes in science and less in art, and started looking into nursing schools in the area. If Bucky noticed, he never said anything, until Steve showed him the acceptance letter with a wry grin.

“No jokes about women’s work?” he dared him.

“Nothin’ womanly about you, pal,” Bucky said; Steve had hit his growth spurt late in his teen years, and it was a glorious thing, almost as if nature were trying to make up for its tardiness. He looked up at Steve, who stood taller and at least twenty pounds heavier than him, now. “Think it suits you, actually,” he added, and Steve felt something warm curl in the pit of his stomach.

A semester later, Bucky held up his own acceptance letter with a half-smile. “What can I say,” he said with a shrug as Steve laughed, “Guess I never got outta the habit of following you.”

 

*

 

The VA hadn’t been hiring when Steve graduated, so he sent his application around to the hospitals around the area in the hopes of landing some position and then transferring after a year or so of experience. The VA was what he’d always wanted to do, sit with the vets, listen to their stories, even if it’d make him jealous as all hell.

But the children’s hospital on the other side of town came calling first, and so he spent his first year as a new nurse on the pediatric floor, doing orthopedics, shaking his head at eight-year-olds who thought it’d be a good idea to climb that tree in the backyard, fifteen-year-olds who’d pushed themselves too far in football practice. He liked it well enough, but still waited for news of any openings at the VA.

Until they floated him one night to the neonatal intensive care unit, pods of tiny babies in incubators that kept them warm. He was terrified of touching them, their pale translucent skin and fragile ribs and bony fingers that couldn’t even wrap around his pinky.

“They’re stronger than they look,” Natasha, the charge nurse of the unit, said, appearing at his side so silently he flinched in surprise. “And you’re in the wrong area.” She looked amused. “We try not to scare the floaters off by giving them twenty-three-weekers. You’ve got a couple of four-month-olds in the other wing. Think you can handle them?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said hastily, rushing to find his proper assignment. The four-month-olds had been sweet, all toothless grins and surprisingly very little crying during the night, but he couldn’t help but think of the tiny ones he’d seen earlier, clinging to life.

Two days later, he knocked on the unit manager’s door. Virginia Potts, the name tag said.

“Are you hiring?” he asked.

 

*

 

Steve was born at twenty-nine weeks, weighing barely over two pounds. Back then, they hadn’t thought he’d make it. His mother said they’d called the chaplain, the priest, everyone—had him baptized right then and there, taken pictures with him with the breathing tube in his mouth and IVs in his arms and legs and waited for the inevitable.

But Steve—as he would later in life as well—surprised them all, and as the days passed he grew, slowly and steadily, progressing to the point that he could breathe on his own, feed on his own. After an extensive stay in the hospital, his parents had finally taken him home.

Bucky, of course, knew this, knew all of this, and wasn’t too surprised when Steve told him of his new job.

“Steve Rogers, still stickin’ up for the little guys,” he said, something like pride in his tone. He slung a heavy arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Now, who would’ve seen _that_ coming?”

 

*

 

Bucky works in the same hospital, but in the ER. “Got plenty of practice stitchin’ _you_ up,” he always liked to say, which was true enough.

Steve’s only seen Bucky working once before, during an admission that came in right at shift-change. Steve had been waiting for him to leave so they could drive home together, but Bucky had seen the pale, wheezing boy stumble into the ER with a frantic mother at his side and immediately taken them in.

Bucky kneels down so he’s at the boy’s level. “Just keep breathing,” he said, lowly, “you can do that, yeah? I know you’ve got it in you, kid, and you’re doing good, you’re doing _great_ , you’re doing so great, it’ll be over in no time.”

And Steve remembers countless afternoons when it felt like his lungs were going to give up on him, when the inhalers didn’t work and he thought that the doctors had been right after all. And even then, slumped over in his tiny bed desperately struggling to catch enough air, there was Bucky, always, Bucky, fiercely telling him to— _breathe_.

“Nice work back there,” he tells him later, as they get into Bucky’s old car.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Bucky jokes, backing out of his parking spot. “I have my moments.”

“Too bad most of ‘em are stupid moments,” Steve says, and Bucky barks out a laugh.

“Ass,” he says affectionately, and they drive home.

 

*

 

**Bucky (12:51 A.M.):** _What time are you eating lunch_

**Steve (12:53 A.M.):** _In 5_

**Steve (12:54 A.M.):** _I am so behind on my charting I am never going to leave this place_

**Bucky: (12:55 A.M.):** _Hurry up and get your ass down here, you know they close at 2_

**Bucky: (12:56 A.M.)** _IT’S BREAKFAST FOR DINNER STEVE!!!_

Steve will never understand the appeal of eating pancakes and waffles after midnight, but types in one last set of vital signs, tells Natasha he’s going on break, and runs down to the cafeteria. Bucky’s sitting in their usual booth, tucked away in the far corners, invisible.

“Got ya a little bit of everything,” Bucky says with his mouth full, and Steve takes a napkin and shoves it in his face.

“I can see that,” he says dryly, taking in the plates of scrambled eggs, stacks of pancakes drenched in maple syrup, French toast and waffles, and a portion of bacon enough to make any cardiologist cry. “Gee, Buck, it’s like no one ever feeds you.”

Bucky continues eating, undeterred. “It has,” he declares, “been a shitstorm, and I am damn well going to eat as many eggs as I want.”

Steve knows the feeling. Most nights are good, but there are nights where it is simply sink-or-swim, a never-ending storm of things to do and fix. “S’been crazy up there too,” he admits, stabbing at a pancake. It’s entirely too soggy by now, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Don’t think I’ve sat down ‘til now.”

Bucky snorts. “Nightly occurrence, for us,” he says dismissively, but then kicks at his ankle not even five seconds later. “You okay?”

“What? Yeah, all sorted out. Just—busy night, is all.”

Bucky makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “You off tomorrow?”

“Mm,” Steve says, swiping half of Bucky’s omelette, ignoring his yelps of protest. “Off for three.”

“I’m back tomorrow, then off for two,” Bucky says thoughtfully, as if Steve doesn’t know his schedule by heart. “There’s that new exhibit you’ve been wanting to see at the Met, yeah? Wanna go? Or you savin’ that up for someone special?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Because everyone’s just lining up around the block to get me, yeah.”

“They should be,” says Bucky flippantly. “But, okay. Let’s go, make a day of it.”

“Sounds good,” Steve agrees, and snatches up the last waffle, sniggering at the utterly betrayed look on Bucky’s face.

 

*

 

Fridays go like this:

Steve sleeps in until about noon and then ventures out into the kitchen, looking out for whatever Bucky’s left him. Today there is chicken noodle, made from the leftover rotisserie chicken they’d had for dinner last night. Steve serves himself a generous portion and heats it up in the microwave while turning on the TV and watching the news. He takes his time with the food; there’s no rush, and he has plenty of time to get ready for his shift later tonight.

He works Fridays because he’s unselfish— _stupidly so,_ Bucky snorts—and would rather let his co-workers who actually do have plans on Friday night get the evening off. It’s not like he has anything better to do, he reasons, even as Bucky sighs exasperatedly at him and makes a point of working as few Fridays as he possibly can.

Steve isn’t stupid—he knows what Bucky does on Friday nights, has seen the attractive men and women leaving their apartment early Saturday mornings when he’s dragging himself home from a tiring shift. Sometimes he’s run into Bucky in the elevator, wearing the same, rumpled clothes from last night. But—all of that, it’s not for him, and he’s accepted that.

He lounges around for most of the day. Bucky is never there, on Fridays. Steve has a vague idea of what he does during the day—ventures out into the city, goes to the gym, checks out hidden dives, finds his space. Steve rests up, as best he can, counting down the hours until his shift.

Finally, it’s time, and he shrugs on a pair of navy scrubs after a quick shower. He gives their empty apartment a last, cursory glance—the stove is off, the TV is silent, the windows are shut. He toes on his shoes and locks the door behind him, and goes to work.

 

*

 

There is a moment:

It’s a little bit after midnight, on a Wednesday (technically Thursday) night off, and he’s just woken up from a fitful sleep, suddenly thirsty. He pads out of his room noiselessly, not bothering to turn any of the lights on as he makes his way to the kitchen.

A moan, a gasp—Steve freezes in his tracks as he makes out the vague outline of two men, of equal height and build, moving against each other _in his kitchen_. Steve backs away slowly, feeling ridiculously awkward.

The distinct sounds of kissing, and skin against skin—Steve, against every ounce of common sense he possesses, stares, arrested at the sight of Bucky pressed against the counter, illuminated dimly by the moonlight filtering in through their windows, head lolling back, neck exposed. His partner leans down to bite at his collar bone, and he gasps, the sound echoing in the air. His eyes flutter open, catching the light and meeting Steve’s startled gaze.

_Shit_.

Steve turns, and flees.

 

*

 

Steve, and sex—

Also complicated.

 

*

 

“Sorry if I scared you last night,” Bucky says a little sheepishly the next morning, hair still wet from his shower. Steve refuses to stare at the bruises littering his neck.

“You didn’t,” he makes himself say. Bucky arches an eyebrow at him, and Steve amends, “You—surprised me. A little. Keep it in your room next time, maybe.”

“You’re blushing!” Bucky crows, and Steve scowls. “Do you need the sex talk again, Steve? Do you need some reminders?”

“I didn’t need the talk from you when we were eleven, and I don’t need it now,” says Steve dryly. Bucky laughs, voice hoarse from sleep—or maybe other things, Steve’s traitorous mind supplies, and he quashes down the thought forcefully. “Is he, uh. Is he still here?”

“Nah, he didn’t stay the night.” Bucky’s still watching him. “We good?”

“ ‘course we are,” Steve mutters, “s’nothing compared to when I literally walked in on you going down on Samantha Maguire when we were sixteen, oh _god_ , my brain, make it _stop_ , there are rooms with perfectly functioning doors for a reason, _use them_.”

In response, Bucky sidles up to him and ruffles his hair. This close, Steve can smell the soap on his skin. He winces.

“I solemnly swear to conduct my sexual affairs behind closed doors from now on,” Bucky vows, all practiced seriousness; and Steve shoves at him and moves away.

 

*

 

The rain always makes Bucky’s shoulder ache.

He never says anything about it, but then again, he never has to, for Steve to know something’s wrong. He sees the way Bucky favors his left side when the clouds start gathering, sees when Bucky pops a couple of Tylenols in his mouth and tries to get comfortable on the couch.

Steve never says anything about it either, knows exactly how Bucky would react to being babied. He’s never pressed for stories about his time in Afghanistan, has always waited for Bucky to reveal whatever he wants Steve to know. He’s gathered up each detail like something precious: the sweltering heat, the humidity after a storm, the suddenness of battle, children bleeding out on the streets while his arm hung limply at his side.

(There is a reason, Steve knows, that Bucky chose to work at a children’s hospital, and that his choice went far beyond the fact that he was good at dealing with children, and even better at patching them up. Because sometimes, on full moons and quiet nights, the sound of Bucky screaming awake from a nightmare will wake him from a sound slumber, and he’ll curl up in bed with him and hold his hand until his breaths even out into an uneasy sleep, or turn on his laptop and watch old shows on Netflix until the sun comes up.)

“I hear this show is pretty good,” Steve says. It is three o’clock in the afternoon, and neither of them have anywhere to go.  Bucky turns to him with a pale imitation of his usual smile.

“Sure,” he says easily, “let’s give it a try.”

_Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ had come heartily recommended by Clint, one of the respiratory therapists on the unit. Five minutes into the first episode, Steve finds himself smiling and chuckling under his breath.

Next to him, Bucky lets out a startlingly loud guffaw, and Steve sinks back into the cushions, lets the tension drain out of him, and breathes.

 

*

 

“Whoa,” Bucky says over his shoulder, and Steve barely manages to contain his flinch of surprise. “That is the most impressive mean mug I’ve ever seen on a six-month-old.”

“Eight,” Steve corrects automatically, quickly finishing the diaper change. “What are you doing up here?”

“Transferred a kid to PICU, thought I’d stop by.” Bucky lets the infant grab his finger. “Kid, do you ever smile? C’mon, show me those gums.”

“He does,” Steve says, buttoning up Jack’s onesie. “Just takes some effort.”

“You look like Grumpy Cat,” Bucky observes, which is, of course, when Jack decides to throw up. Without even looking, Steve grabs Bucky’s sleeve before he can make his escape.

“Somehow, you made him throw up,” he says without looking at him, “and you are going to help me clean this up.”

Bucky makes a vaguely pained noise as he extricates himself from Steve’s grasp and rifles through the stack of onesies on the bottom of the crib. “Oh—this one’s _perfect,_ ” he says, tossing a navy button-up with the words **LITTLE MONSTER** printed brightly across the front.

“You’re terrible,” Steve says, with affectionate exasperation.

Bucky sets himself to the task of getting Jack dressed, getting increasingly frustrated with each passing second. Steve busies himself with wiping down the crib and getting fresh blankets, stifling laughter when Bucky fails to pair each button perfectly.

“What am I missing?” he demands, pointing accusingly at the last button that’s gone unpaired.

“A brain,” Steve quips, and is completely prepared for the sharp elbow in his stomach. “C’mere, it just takes practice.” He unbuttons the whole outfit, and buttons it back up again in a matter of seconds.

“Magic,” Bucky says solemnly, reaching over and rubbing Jack’s belly.

Jack glowers.

 

*

 

There is a moment:

Sunday night, or Monday morning, technically—it’s three-thirty in the morning, they’ve both got the night off, and neither of them can sleep: the curse of working the night shift. Bucky’s made them both hot chocolate (he’s got the biggest sweet tooth Steve’s ever known) and they’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch, flipping through the shows they’d recorded on their DVR for the week.

The hot chocolate is warm and sweet as it goes down his throat, but he still kicks at Bucky’s knee with his bare foot and demands, “Where’re my marshmallows, Barnes?”

“In mine,” Bucky smirks, raising his mug so Steve can see the jumbo-sized marshmallows bobbing over the rim. Steve makes an indignant noise.  “Shoulda made them yourself, maybe,” Bucky says, taking a long, exaggerated sip and rearranging himself on the couch to get more comfortable.

“Ass,” Steve mutters.

They settle on finishing up the rest of _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ and Steve forgets all about the lack of marshmallows in his hot chocolate, focusing on the show and the familiar sound of Bucky’s laughter beside him.

He finishes his drink with one last gulp, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Bucky, who’d finished his long ago, idly taps at the side of his mug. Steve catches himself watching the action: Bucky’s always had such graceful hands, whether he was handling a knife in the kitchen, patching up his scrapes, or throwing around a baseball.

_“I kinda wish something could happen between us, romantic stylez,”_ Jake says on screen, and sitting here, on their well-worn couch with Bucky’s feet in his lap, Steve suddenly, inexplicably, _aches_.

 

*

 

**Bucky (11:39 P.M.):** _how’s it going_

**Bucky (11:39 P.M.):** _any of your babies piss on you yet ha ha_

**Steve (11:46 P.M.):** _you’re hilarious_

**Bucky (11:48 P.M.):** _yes i am_

**Bucky (11:53 P.M.):** _you wanna go on a double date on Saturday? Checked your schedule & you’re off so don’t even try to lie to me rogers_

**Steve (11:55 P.M.):** _do I have to?_

**Bucky (11:56 P.M.):** _well you don’t HAVE to but you haven’t been out in a while right_

**Steve (11:57 P.M.):** _I really don’t want to. next time maybe_

**Bucky (12:00 A.M.):** _aw come on steve it’ll be fun_

**Steve (12:01 A.M.):** _gotta go, duty calls_

**Bucky (12:03 A.M.):** _fine. but this isn’t over!!_

**Bucky (12:04 A.M.):** _text me when you get a minute ok? at lunch or something_

**Bucky (12:05 A.M.):** _don’t forget you punk_

**Steve (12:06 A.M.):** _wouldn’t dream of it_

**Bucky (12:06 A.M.):** _:DD_

*

 

There is a moment:

Bucky’s lying on Steve’s bed while singing along to the Spice Girls on the radio when he stops and says, “We should go on a double date.”

Steve stiffens from where he’d been staring forlornly at his algebra textbook. “I dunno about that,” he says, slowly.

“Why not?” Bucky shifts on the bed until they’re looking directly at each other. “You—never go out, or anything, Steve. Just think it might be good for you.”

“Went out, once,” Steve says, vaguely. “Wasn’t for me, Buck.”

Bucky laughs, not unkindly. “Maybe you did it wrong,” and it’s just a joke, Steve gets it, Bucky’s always kidding around, but it stings.

“Think I’m wired differently,” Steve says, finally, and Bucky goes quiet.

“What, you mean like me?” Bucky flops over on his back to stare at Steve’s ceiling. It’s littered with dozens of those glow-in-the-dark stars that Steve had fallen in love with when they were still in elementary school. “You like both? Or—just one?”

Steve appreciates Bucky’s frankness. “No,” he says. “More like—neither. I think.”

“Oh.” Steve glances at Bucky, sees that he’s chewing on his bottom lip in thought. “You think so?”

“Well, I.” Steve goes back to staring at his textbook, where the numbers and letters congeal into one giant mess. “I dunno. M’not that interested. Not like everyone else is, you know? I know I’m only sixteen, what the hell do I know, but—” He shrugs. “Wired differently.”

“Different ain’t bad,” Bucky says, firmly, and the tension drains from Steve’s spine.

“So you don’t care?”

Bucky shrugs. “You’re still _you._ I mean. Whatever makes you happy.”

“Pizza, mostly,” Steve says, attempting humor, and Bucky lets out a bark of a laugh.

“Me too,” he says, and leans in conspiratorially. “Let’s order in,” and so they do.

 

*

 

Which isn’t to say that Steve never dates, just that it’s never high on his list of priorities.

It’s a thing that happens occasionally, but not regularly. He’d had a relationship with Peggy from L&D for almost a year, but it had eventually ended in a mutual break-up. They’d remained relatively close friends after everything was said and done.

“Only _you_ could stay friends with your exes,” Bucky had said afterwards, fondly.

Bucky, though, Bucky doesn’t really have relationships. He has flings and one-night stands (sometimes two, or three-night stands; Steve remembers the ones that leave their apartment more than once with startling clarity), but nothing beyond that, apart from the two months he’d dated Natasha.

Still, every now and then, he’ll go on a double date with Bucky.

(Sometimes, it’s because he’s lonely, and kissing’s not so bad, and he’s _had_ sex before, though he’s never seen what the big deal is and why everyone else wants it so badly; other times it’s because he genuinely enjoys meeting new people over good food and good conversation; and other times it’s just because he loves watching Bucky flirt, flirt like he was born to do it, oozing charm in every cadence of his voice, easy and smart and funny and kind and—)

Tonight he gets ready for dinner and Bucky only vetoes his outfit once, which is a vast improvement, and they go out for Italian.

His date is a girl named Elaine, with straight black hair and one of the prettiest smiles Steve’s ever seen. She’s funny and engaging and works as a librarian and it’s going great, and Bucky’s making faces at him over his drink.

He walks Elaine home after, and lets her give him a kiss goodnight, and wanders around the city for a little while, ducking into various secondhand bookstores and just browsing through the shelves. He leaves empty-handed, breathes in the scent of Brooklyn at night (not the most pleasant, but it’s undeniably home) and, after judging that enough time has passed, makes his way back home.

He presses an ear to the front door before he turns his key in the lock. There is a light on in the kitchen, but no suspicious sounds of any sort, and he tiptoes his way into the room to find Bucky by himself, nursing a glass of liquor.

“Buck?” he asks, furrowing his brow.

Bucky lights up at the sight of him. “Hey, Steve!” His words slur slightly. “Where’d you end up going?”

“Nowhere, really.” Steve approaches him, picking up the half-empty bottle of whiskey. “Did Tiffany leave already?”

“Didn’t bring her back here,” Bucky says honestly. “Didn’t feel right. I guess.”

“That’s too bad,” says Steve, and means it. She’d seemed nice. “Let’s watch some TV, how’s that sound?”

“ ‘kay,” Bucky agrees, and lets Steve maneuver him onto their couch, staring blankly at the darkened screen. Steve wants to ask, but also doesn’t. He grabs the remote and turns on the TV, idly flipping through the channels.

They wind up watching a marathon of _MythBusters_ well into the early hours of the morning. At some point, Steve dozes off, nose squished uncomfortably into the arm rest. By the time he wakes up, the sun is high up in the sky, and Bucky’s lying on the opposite end of the couch, legs outstretched so that his heel is digging into the small of Steve’s back. Steve kicks Bucky’s knees until he moves his legs away with a muffled curse, and then goes back into a dreamless sleep.

 

*

 

The headache starts slowly, a spot of pain blooming just behind his right eye as soon as he gets to work. _As long as I don’t get an asthma attack on top of it,_ he thinks, a little desperately, even has he double-checks to make sure his inhaler is in his bag as he heads off to work. Bucky’s not working tonight, and had gone out to the movies with one of his old Army buddies. He’s grateful for it; he knows Bucky never would have let him leave the house otherwise.

He ignores the pain, for a while—goes about his business, does his assessments, feeds his babies, and charts everything he’s supposed to. The pain steadily increases in its intensity, and he has to fight back the wave of nausea as he forces himself to sit down in the nearest chair and squeeze his eyes shut.

“Steve.” Natasha’s voice is low and soothing in his ear. “You’ve been a mess all night.”

“No,” he protests. “Did everything I was supposed to.”

“All right, yes, you did,” Natasha concedes, “but you’re obviously ill and you can’t focus. I won’t have you jeopardizing our patients’ safety.”

“I’m fine,” he insists, opening his eyes—but then suddenly the room is spinning, and he’s heaving, and Natasha’s got a trash can right in his face as he empties the contents of his stomach.

He collapses back into the chair. Natasha brushes his hair away from his forehead.

“I’ve already called James,” she says, with finality. “He should be here any minute. Now. Do your babies need anything?”

“Catherine needs to be fed,” he mutters. “Breast milk’s in the fridge. And Nicholas has ampicillin due at two.”

“I’ll take care of it,” she says brusquely.

Steve’s not sure how long he sits there, head in his hands, eyes tightly shut. There are—too many noises—babies crying, alarms beeping, the steady chatter of the nurses nearby. He wishes he’d thought to bring some Excedrin with him to work. God, but this is miserable.

And then there’s a pair of warm, large hands slipping dark sunglasses onto his nose. Steve opens his eyes, cautiously. Bucky shakes his head at him, smiling ruefully.

“Idiot,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you home.”

Bucky tucks him in when they arrive, setting a large glass of water on his bedside table and giving him his medicine. He sits at the foot of the bed, a vague outline in the darkness of Steve’s room.

“Y’don’t have to,” Steve croaks. “Sorry. Were you…out?”

“Was just watchin’ TV,” Bucky says. “And—geez, Steve, you don’t have to _apologize_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve mutters, already drifting off. “Thanks, Buck.”

“Don’t go making this a habit,” Bucky warns. Steve’s last act before falling asleep is to flip him off.

Bucky snorts. “You’re halfway better already,” he says, rolling his eyes.

 

*

 

There is a moment:

It’s their senior year of high school, and Bucky’s finally, _finally_ gotten his first car. It’s not the most impressive car, not by any means—an old, beat up Ford sedan that Bucky had saved up for years and years and years, working part-time jobs after school and during the summers. They’re driving aimlessly around the block, nowhere to go and plenty of time to kill, singing too-loudly to the radio and just generally being seventeen.

They’re stopped at a red light, and Steve says, “I could go for a burger and fries right now,” and Bucky says, “Your treat, man, you’ve been eating twice your weight in everything lately,” when there is a sudden, jarring impact from behind and their car skids forward into the intersection. The other cars swerve around them, honking loudly. Bucky has enough sense to drive his car an extra couple of feet so it’s out of the way.

“ _Augh,_ ” Steve groans, rubbing at the back of his neck, and Bucky leans over him, gripping his elbow tightly.

“Are you okay? Steve. _Steve_.”

“I’m fine!” Steve says, a little too loudly. He glances at Bucky, taking in all the details of him—the disheveled hair, the frown on his face, slightly rapid breathing, but thankfully, beautifully whole. “And you? You’re—”

“—fine,” Bucky cut in impatiently, still inspecting Steve. “Are you—breathing okay?”

“Aw, Buck, I haven’t had an attack in years,” Steve protests, but cuts himself short at the wild-eyed look in Bucky’s eyes, and abruptly remembers how Bucky’s mom had died. “Hey. Bucky,” he says, softly.

“You’re fine,” Bucky says, quietly to himself. “You’re fine.”

“Yeah,” Steve says firmly. “Not as little as I used to be.”

Bucky unbuckles his seat belt and throws open the door. “Gonna give that bastard a piece of my mind,” he mutters, and Steve scrambles to follow him.

“Go easy on ‘em, Buck, we weren’t seriously hurt. Airbags didn’t even deploy,” he says, as they make their way to the red pick-up truck that had rear-ended them. The driver’s door opens, and a frazzled young girl probably around their age steps out on shaky legs. Inside, there is the undeniable, piercing wail of a young child.

“ _Bucky_ ,” he hisses, and Bucky steels his jaw.

“Are you okay?” he manages to get out with steely politeness, and the girl bursts into sobs.

Everything else is kind of blurry after that—police officers arrive on the scene to direct traffic, insurance information is exchanged, Bucky’s car is towed. No one is hurt, and Steve even takes a couple of minutes to sit in the back of the truck and calm the baby down.

They stop by at a McDonald’s and it’s a sort of quiet and tense that Steve doesn’t remember ever feeling with Bucky.

“You’re okay?” Bucky asks again, pouring them both a glass of iced water.

“Yes.” Steve looks him directly in the eye. “I’m fine. Sorry ‘bout your car, though.”

Bucky lets out an incredulous laugh. “For fuck’s sake, Steve. You—”

“Are okay,” Steve repeats.

Bucky sinks into the couch next to him, their sides touching from shoulders to knees. “Good,” he murmurs, pressing his hands to his eyes. “Good.”

 

*

 

It is half-past-midnight on a Tuesday night (Wednesday morning), both of them are off from work, and Bucky is making chocolate chip pancakes from scratch.

“But why,” Steve says, blinking at him.

“Because,” and Bucky brandishes a spatula at him, dripping with pancake batter, “I can’t sleep, and I’m hungry, and I want pancakes.”

“I didn’t sign up for this when I agreed to room with you,” Steve mutters.

“You wish,” Bucky retorts, and Steve lets out a half-laugh and asks, “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” Bucky says, sliding over a plate, “shut up and eat.”

And Bucky really does make the best pancakes, so Steve does as he’s told, shoveling forkful after forkful of pancake in his mouth.

“Good?” Bucky asks.

“No, they’re terrible,” Steve replies flatly as he finishes off the plate.

“God, you’re such an ass,” Bucky says, flipping a pancake. “Why do I put up with you?”

“I have my charms.”

“Haven’t seen any of these alleged charms in the past twenty-five years.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re too stupid to notice a good thing right in front of you,” Steve says airily, reaching into his back pocket for his phone.

Bucky goes quiet after that. “Naw,” he says. “Wouldn’t say _that_.”

Steve scrolls through his unread emails. “What do you mean—Buck, is something burning?”

Bucky yelps. “Shitshitfuck _shit_ —” and they lose a very good pancake that night.

 

*

 

It’s National Nurses Week, which means the hospital has decided to put together an unofficial party, of sorts, in the main conference room. Steve doesn’t like the big gatherings—and, anyway, it’s always a toss-up as to whether or not he can actually spare the time to leave his assignment and run down to grab some food—but Bucky, oh, Bucky eats it up.

He’s always belonged in the spotlight, Steve thinks fondly.

 

**Bucky (11:58 P.M.):** _ok really tho you know this thing only lasts until 1230 bc night shift always gets shafted_

**Steve (12:01 A.M.):** _5 min_

**Bucky (12:02 A.M.):** _THERE IS A GIANT CHOCOLATE FONDUE FOUNTAIN_

**Bucky (12:03 A.M.):** _STEVE YOU KNOW THAT’S YOUR FAVORITE_

**Bucky (12:03 A.M.):** _FONDUEEEEEEE_

When he finally does make it down to the party, he heads right for Bucky. “You are way too…chipper,” he tells him.

Bucky shoves a plate of fruit that has literally been drowned in chocolate in his face. “For you,” he says, grandly.

“…thanks,” Steve says, helplessly amused.

Bucky is in his element here, surrounded by dozens of nurses from departments all over the hospital—from telemetry to rehab, ICU to trauma. Steve is content to hang back with his plate of fondue and watch him mingle.

“Your boyfriend’s flirting with three people all at once,” Tony says, shaking his head in sheer admiration.

Steve side-eyes him. “Oh, like you haven’t done the same?”

“Yeah, but he hasn’t gotten slapped for it, is the difference,” Tony clarifies, “and I noticed you didn’t deny him being your boyfriend, Rogers. He finally put a ring on it?”

Steve lets out a long-suffering sigh. “We’re not like that, Tony.”

“Uh-huh.”

Steve shakes his head. “What are you even doing here?”

“What, _I don’t even go here_?” Tony smirks. “I’m a fuckin’ bioengineer, pal, you use all the shit I make, I can show up to every hospital shindig I want.”

“You can afford all of this and more,” Steve says, sounding pained.

“But _fondue_!” Tony insists, wide-eyed, and that’s how Steve knows he’s just riling him up at this point. Some feet away, Bucky lets out a bark of laughter at something Clint said, and Steve instinctively turns towards the sound. Bucky meets his eyes instantly, and gestures him over.

Tony shoots him a look. “Not touching that with a ten-foot pole,” he says, downing a glass of sparkling water.

Steve waves Bucky off. “Huh?” he asks Tony belatedly.

“Oh, nothing. I believe somebody _wants_ you,” Tony drawls, swiping a chocolate-drizzled strawberry from Steve’s plate and heading towards Pepper. Steve blinks at his back.

“Steve, will you get your ass over here,” Bucky hollers, and Steve, as always, goes to him.

 

*

 

Last night was a bad night.

Steve knows it the moment he walks in the door, the familiar tired ache in his bones after pulling a twelve-hour night shift. There’s a heaviness in the air that Steve knows all too well, and the TV is on, playing _Good Morning America_.

Steve, as always, leaves his designated hospital shoes by the front door and pads quietly into the living room. Bucky is staring blankly at the screen, sitting on the edge of the couch, both feet flat on the floor. He’s hunched over so that his elbows are on his knees. His hair is disheveled, unwashed. Steve sits down next to him, not touching.

Bucky doesn’t acknowledge him, and Steve doesn’t mind. He folds his legs under him, watching the screen, taking in the weather forecast for the next couple of days. (Rain and clouds today; sunshine by the weekend.)  Bucky doesn’t say anything when the news progresses to the crisis in the Middle East, or when two actors Steve vaguely recognizes are interviewed for their upcoming movie.

A dog food commercial is playing when Bucky rasps, “Waffles.”

Steve says, carefully, “You know I’m shit at making those on my own,” and stands up slowly. “Wanna help?”

Bucky nods, and follows him into the kitchen. He lingers by the sink as Steve methodically gathers his ingredients. The apartment is small enough that they can still hear the news playing on the TV, and Steve hums something under his breath.

Steve turns the waffle iron on, lets it heat as he mixes up his ingredients.

“No,” Bucky says, suddenly, and he claps a large, warm hand around Steve’s wrist. “Too much flour.”

Steve holds himself still. Bucky’s breath stirs the hairs at the nape of his neck. “Gotcha,” he forces himself to say. “Told ya I couldn’t do this.”

“We can’t all be as perfect as me,” Bucky says, quiet, but it’s the first step, and Steve huffs out a laugh.

“Shut up and crack some eggs,” he orders, smiling for the first time since he’s gotten home. Bucky reaches for him, squeezes his shoulder in unspoken thanks, and does as he’s told. When he’s sure that Bucky can’t see, Steve lets out a soft, shaky breath, missing the solid weight at his back.

 

*

 

Steve comes home the following morning to the sounds of Bucky singing (shrieking) in the shower. His eyes dart towards the front door and he wonders if he should give him just a few more minutes—

“ _I came in like a wrecking ball—_ ”

Steve bites his lip. Oh, hell.

“ _All you ever did was wreck me—_ ”

But he was so, so tired. Four twelve-hour shifts in a row and he just wants to sleep for the next twenty-four hours and eat Chinese take-out and—

“ _—Yeah, you wreeeeeck me—”_

Steve hunkers down, claps his hands over his ears and braces himself.

“ _You wreeeeeeck meeeee—”_

And there it is, Steve thinks grimly, taking long strides to their shared bathroom and banging on the door. “Sing a little louder, jackass, I don’t think they heard you over in Jersey!”

“Fuck off!” Bucky says good-naturedly through the door.

Steve heads for the kitchen, next, gets the coffee-maker going and starts frying a couple of eggs for breakfast. Bucky comes in a few minutes later, hair still wet. Steve can see where the damp ends of it have soaked through the collar of his sky-blue t-shirt.

“I could’ve done that,” Bucky chides him. “You’re the one comin’ home from a shift.”

“Yeah, well, you were too slow, as always,” Steve says, plating the eggs.

“D’you have a good night?” Bucky asks, ignoring him in favor of shoveling eggs in his mouth.

“Eh.” Steve pulls a face. “Had a self-extubation. Fun times.”

Bucky lets out a low whistle. “Sucks. Turn out okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine.” Steve pauses, chews on his omelette. “And, you? Did you go out last night?”

Bucky shrugs. “For a little, yeah. Didn’t go home with anyone, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

Steve flushes. “I’m not! You can. You can do whatever you want. If you did, that’s fine.”

“But I didn’t,” says Bucky, frowning.

“That’s fine too,” says Steve, too loudly, abruptly standing up and going to the sink to wash his plates. As he stands there and scrubs, he feels utterly exhausted. “Shit. Sorry. I’m just—tired.”

“That’s what you get for doing four in a row,” Bucky teases, but his smile isn’t quite as bright as it usually is. “Get some sleep. Leave your dishes, for Christ’s sake.”

Steve turns off the water and dries his hands. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

He goes to the bathroom and brushes his teeth, staring at his reflection in the mirror. It’s true: he is bone-weary, and there are bags beneath his eyes to show for it. He spits in the sink and rinses his mouth, then strips and steps into the shower.

He’s quick, and efficient. All he wants is to sleep, possibly forever. He wraps his towel loosely around his waist and heads for his bedroom. Across the hall, Bucky is sitting on the floor of his own room, fiddling with his iPod. Steve watches him for a little too long, and then Bucky looks up at him, a warm half-grin on his lips.

Steve swallows and shuts his door.

 

*

 

It’s four-thirty in the morning and Steve can’t sleep, so he pulls on a pair of sweats, laces up his shoes, and goes out for a run. Bucky’s at work, and he shoots him a short text as he starts on a quick warm-up lap around the parking lot.

_Goddamn insomniac_ , Bucky’s sent back, and Steve grins into his phone before slipping it back into his pocket and beginning to run in earnest.

For him, running is one of the best things in the world, a not-so-subtle _fuck-you_ to the world, to everyone who told him he should just take it easy and slow down and sit on the sidelines while everybody else raced around him. It’s early enough that the wind is brisk and comfortable as he picks up the pace, as he runs up and down the empty streets, past closed shops and the occasional jogger.

The sun is just peeking up over the horizon when he slows down into a fast walk, ducking into a café Bucky and he frequent, offering a small smile to the college student manning the cash register.

“Just a black coffee, please,” he says, and sits at an empty table by the window once he receives his order. It’s still far too hot for him to drink, so he asks the student for a spare pen and starts doodling on a stack of napkins.

Behind him, the door opens. Steve doesn’t pay it much attention until someone settles into the chair across from him with a cup of his own coffee.

He looks up. “Sam!” he says, delightedly.

“The hell have you been?” Sam replies with a grin. “You’d think we lived three thousand miles away instead of just across the city.”

“Oh, god, I know.” Steve looks contrite. “Night shift problems. Kills your social life.”

Sam snorts. “Barnes doesn’t seem to have that problem.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “And when has Bucky ever had problems with his social life?” It’s one of the things he envies most about Bucky: the way he fits into any crowd, easy smiles and easier conversations. Sometimes, he wonders why Bucky even sticks around, but that’s a thought he quashes down quickly.

“True enough.” Sam takes a sip of coffee and squints at Steve’s drawing. He opens his mouth to say something, but then Steve’s phone buzzes in his pocket insistently. He shoots Sam an apologetic grimace, which is quickly waved off.

It’s Bucky, of course it is. “What do you want?” he says into the phone, smiling.

“Can’t believe you went out running without me,” Bucky grumbles. “Where’re you at?”

“The usual. You want something? I’m here with Sam.”

“The hell is he doing up so early?” Bucky’s voice carries over to Sam, who laughingly rolls his eyes. “Nah—just on my way home. See ya in a bit?”

“I left you some coffee,” Steve says absentmindedly.

“This is why I love you,” Bucky says fervently, and Steve snorts and hangs up on him. He turns back to Sam. “What time do you have to be at work? You could come over for a bit.”

“No can do,” says Sam apologetically. “Just came in here for a quick coffee run. Call me when you get a weekend off, though?” He stands up, his chair scraping against the floor.

“Couple of weeks from now, I think,” says Steve slowly. He stands up too, gathering his things. He sweeps the napkins he’d been doodling on off the table, crumpling them in his fist.

“Hey, those were nice,” Sam protests, and Steve glances down at his hands. They’d just been a couple of rough sketches: Bucky furiously pushing at the buttons of his old DS, and the outline of someone’s back, scars on his left shoulder.

“Oh,” Steve says, uncomfortable. “No, uh. I don’t think so.”

Sam stares at the napkins thoughtfully. “Okay,” he says, backing off.

 

*

 

There is a moment:

It’s 1997, and Bucky’s grandma’s gotten it into her head to teach her boy to dance, “because kids nowadays don’t know how to dance worth a damn, and my grandson is not going to be one of them.” Bucky’s stuck in the middle of the living room, his arms gingerly around his grandmother’s waist, and Steve is sitting on the couch, munching on a handful of Cheetos.

“I won’t break,” his grandma says, slapping Bucky lightly on the elbow. Bucky shoots her a sheepish grin and pulls her in a little bit closer. “All right. Good job, son. One-two-three, have you got that down? One-two-three. One-two-three.”

From his vantage point, Steve can see Bucky mouthing silently to himself as he leads his grandmother around the floor: _One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three._

They go on like this for a while, Louis Armstrong playing in the background, until Bucky’s grandma pulls away and sinks into the couch in a graceless heap. “I am too tired,” she says, with a sharp grin much like Bucky’s. “Not as young as I used to be.”

“But still just as beautiful,” Bucky winks, and she lets out a burst of laughter.

“Oh, I pity the poor girls who will fall for you,” she says, shaking her head. She turns to Steve. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

“Oh, no, I—” Steve shakes his head. “I’m not good. Like, at all. Too uncoordinated.”

“I’ll go easy on you,” Bucky promises, curling his hand around Steve’s wrist and pulling him up.

There’s an old jazz song playing, one Steve doesn’t recognize. Bucky’s got an arm wrapped loosely around Steve’s hip. He smells like the grass and sun outside.

“Why’re you leading,” Steve mutters, staring fiercely at his feet, willing himself not to trip.

“‘cause I’m taller,” Bucky says smugly. “And, y’know, I can actually do this without falling on my face. Chin up, Steve-o.”

Steve looks up sharply and winds up stepping on Bucky’s toes. They’re bare-footed, but he still hops back, wincing. “Sorry, sorry,” he stammers.

But Bucky’s laughing, and his grandmother is watching them both with a fond smile. “You weigh, what, eighty pounds? Barely felt it.” Bucky smiles at him, warmly, but Steve still flushes with embarrassment. “Fine. C’mere, I’ll let you lead this time.”

“Jerk,” Steve mutters, but stays with him anyway.

 

*

 

“We have no food,” Bucky groans as Steve meets him by the elevators after a shift. “We have, like. A box of flour. And one egg. And two inches of milk, probably expired.”

Steve sighs. “Well, let’s go do some groceries then. At least there won’t be a crowd at this hour.”

“Fine, but you’re driving,” Bucky says, tossing him his keys, and Steve mumbles his assent.

It’s one of the perks of working nights: getting to run errands in the mornings with very little people on the roads. Minimal traffic, no squabbling for parking spots, no long lines. Bucky collapses gracelessly in the passenger’s seat, wrinkled scrubs and dark circles beneath his eyes. Steve stares at his reflection in the rearview mirror and pinches his cheeks once, twice before turning on the ignition of Bucky’s car.

“Don’t let me fall asleep,” he warns.

“Been lookin’ for an excuse to slap you across the face,” Bucky mutters, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“Funny,” Steve deadpans, backing out of his parking spot and exiting the garage.

“Oh god the _liiiiight_ ,” Bucky moans as Steve gets on the highway and directly faces the rising sun. “No, let’s go back. Order in. Who cares about fresh produce anyway? Overrated, that’s what Stark would say.”

“Tony has people to do his groceries for him,” Steve reminds him, taking the exit to the closest grocery store near their apartment. He clucks his tongue. “Or, should we go to the farmer’s market?”

“We’re here already, get it over with,” Bucky says, and Steve turns left into the first parking spot he finds.

There is, predictably, next to nobody in the store. They grab the bare necessities: eggs, milk, bread, juice, but at one point Bucky veers off into the produce section and Steve finds him there, staring perplexedly at the tomatoes.

“Buck?”

“The fuck are grape tomatoes?” Bucky asks.

Steve peers at them. “Er. They kinda look like cherry tomatoes?”

“No, but _those_ are the cherry tomatoes.” Bucky points behind him. Steve squints.

“I dunno,” he admits, at last. “If you really want ‘em, we could give ‘em a shot.”

Bucky pauses. “One of each,” he says at last, and Steve watches with amusement as he selects the ripest of the bunch.

When they get home, Bucky washes off the tomatoes and eats each one, chewing slowly and thoughtfully. Steve busies himself with putting away everything they bought. He turns, and arches an eyebrow in question.

Bucky looks murderous. “They taste the exact fucking same!” he snarls, and Steve bursts into bright, surprised laughter.

“Oh, Buck,” he says with undisguised fondness, and suddenly everything just— _clicks_.

 

*

 

It’s Wednesday morning and Steve wakes up and he’s in love with his best friend.

(Because— _of course_ he’s in love. Of course he is. How could he be anything less? It’s Bucky. It’s _Bucky._ )

And they still squabble over the Netflix queue and Bucky still occasionally drags Steve out of the apartment and Bucky still sends Steve the most inane text messages at ungodly hours in the morning when he’s at work. Steve still makes him coffee and Bucky makes him pancakes and after long, exhausting shifts at work, they still come home to each other, like they always have.

Nothing has changed, but then again, maybe that’s the point.

 

*

 

Bucky says, “I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth, but it is a literal shithole in here.”

“It’s not _literally_ a shithole,” Steve corrects him halfheartedly, frowning at the state of their apartment. When was the last time they’d cleaned? “…but, yeah, it’s pretty bad.”

“We used to have a chore wheel,” Bucky says vaguely.

“Which we never actually stuck to,” Steve points out, and Bucky makes a noise of acquiescence. “I guess—you mop the floors, I’ll clean out the bathroom? And we can do laundry after,” he adds, thinking of the growing pile of dirty clothes in his room.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Bucky salutes with a lazy grin.

Bucky hums as he gets out their old Swiffer mop, something Steve had forgotten they even owned. Steve sets to scrubbing out the toilet, and, when that’s done, wipes down their sink and shower with exorbitant amounts of Lysol. He steps back and surveys his work critically—it is, at long last, clean.

“I just wanna say,” he starts as he exits their bathroom armed with bottles of cleaning spray, “that you have way too much hair, okay, just _way_ —”

Bucky is sitting at the foot of Steve’s bed, one of Steve’s sketchbooks open on his lap. Steve makes a noise from the doorway and Bucky startles, dropping the book on the floor.

“Sorry,” he says hastily. “I just—damn, I don’t—I don’t have an excuse. Was just curious.”

Steve sets down his cleaning things and crosses the room, picking up his sketchbook. He flips through it. They’re fairly innocuous things: sketches of Nat and Clint bickering good-naturedly at the nurse’s station, Brooklyn Bridge at sunrise, Bucky focused intently on a Rubik’s cube.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Steve says.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, a nervous tic he’s had since Steve can’t even remember when. “I’m almost done,” he says. “Just have the kitchen left.”

“I’ll put the dishes in the dishwasher,” Steve says, and Bucky nods, dragging the Swiffer behind him as he goes towards the kitchen. Steve watches his back as he goes, for far too long.

Eventually, they make their way down to the laundry room, hampers filled to the brim with dirty scrubs and sweats and jeans. Steve loads his clothes in silence; next to him, Bucky does the same, humming absentmindedly underneath his breath.

Then Steve hops up on one of the machines that’s not in use, tapping out a text to Sam on his phone. His fingers have always been too big for the keyboard, and he’s learned the hard way that auto-correct isn’t always his friend. He squints in concentration—he thinks he’ll probably need glasses, soon—before he finally hits send.

When he glances up, Bucky is looking at him.

“Hi,” Steve says, awkward.

Bucky gives him a slow smile. Steve’s seen that smile before, but never quite directed at him. He doesn’t know what it means.

Then Bucky says, “You had your stupid face on,” and Steve flips him off.

 

*

 

Bucky’s always loved music, all genres, all kinds. Steve has fond memories of Bucky dragging him out to old jazz clubs during summer break, and night clubs and bars when they were older. Steve loves music as well, but never quite as much as Bucky, who found a solace in it that Steve usually only found in art.

And there’s a moment, in the first days of Bucky’s return from Afghanistan, where he’s sitting in his room, listening to the radio, to a station that plays nothing but classic jazz standards. Steve hovers with a terrible sense of helplessness, asking questions that receive no answer, bringing plates of food that mostly go untouched, never leaving his side.

_“Unforgettable, that’s what you are,”_ Nat King Cole croons through the tinny speakers of their old radio, and Bucky moves ever so slightly as Steve settles on the floor beside him, sketchbook and charcoal pencils in hand.

_“Unforgettable, though near or far,”_ and Steve starts on an outline of the playground behind their old elementary school, the rusty swings and plastic slide.

“There were monkey bars,” Bucky suddenly says, voice hoarse from disuse, and Steve blinks at him before answering.

“You’re right,” he says, penciling it in the corner of his sketch. “I was awful at ‘em, though.”

“You were smaller back then,” Bucky says, slowly.

Steve shrugs. “Puberty was good to me.”

“Bigger’n me, now,” Bucky says ruefully, and Steve shifts until they’re shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Not by much,” he says. “Once we get some food in you, you’ll catch up.”

“Well,” Bucky says, with the faintest shadow of his smirk, “in that case, shut up and make me some pancakes.”

“Make ‘em yourself, asshole,” Steve says, hiding a smile.

 

*

 

“Noooo,” Bucky moans when Steve throws open his bedroom door at five in the afternoon to wake him up for work. “Nooo, don’t make me goooo.”

Steve ignores him. “You’ll be late,” he says. “ _We’ll_ be late.”

“I’ll call in,” Bucky mumbles into his pillow, “tell ‘em I’m sick. I’m dyin’, Steve. _Dying._ ”

“Think of all the people that need you,” Steve says, marching into Bucky’s closet and grabbing a pair of folded black scrubs. “Helping ‘em out, and all.”

“There’re plenty of other people who can help ‘em,” Bucky says, but he’s blinking his eyes open now.

“What about the money?” Steve asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Ah, the money,” Bucky sighs, with a half-hearted grin. Steve swallows at the sight of Bucky in bed, tousled hair and wrinkled shirt, dried spit at the corner of his mouth. He glances down at the scrubs in his hands and throws them at Bucky’s face.

_Smooth, Rogers,_ he thinks as Bucky sputters.

“Now I’m really calling in sick,” Bucky threatens. “Leave you out in the cold. Drive yourself to work, Rogers.”

“See if I don’t,” Steve shoots back, turning to leave.

“Wait, Steve,” Bucky calls, sounding unnaturally serious, and Steve pauses in the doorway.

“Will you,” Bucky starts, and Steve furrows his brow, glances at him over his shoulder. Bucky continues: “Will you grab me another pair of scrubs, these ones have a hole in the pocket, see—”

“Half-an-hour,” Steve tells him firmly, ignoring Bucky’s pleas with practiced ease.

 

*

 

There is a moment:

Algebra II, and they’re factoring polynomials on cheap notebook paper and Steve is staring so hard at the clock on the wall it feels like his eyes are going to pop out. There are precisely twenty-three minutes left until the class ends and they can finally go to lunch. Behind him, Bucky rests his feet on the legs of Steve’s chair and shoves him forward, slightly. Steve rolls his eyes and flips him the middle finger where their teacher can’t see.

Nineteen minutes left and—

“James Barnes?”

Bucky sits up straight, and Steve turns to the counselor in the doorway. Ms. Hill is wearing an unreadable expression, not that that’s any different from her normal face. Bucky raises a hand.

“Please come with me. Take your things with you,” she adds, and Steve whirls around in his seat to share a bewildered look with Bucky, who shoves his things in his backpack and follows her out the door.

Bucky doesn’t return to class, and Steve would skip the rest of the day if he only had a car. He’s resigned to sitting in Honors English, only halfheartedly reading through _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_. When class finally gets out, he finds his mother’s car parked out front. Steve climbs into the passenger’s seat, dumping his bags in the back. He looks at her: she’s thin-lipped and red-eyed.

“There was an accident,” she says, voice cracking, and Steve’s heart drops.

The days after pass in a blur, but there are moments that stand out in Steve’s mind: Bucky, breaking into his parents’ liquor cabinet and downing half a bottle of rum while staring at a picture of his mother; Becca, shaking in Bucky’s arms on the kitchen floor; Bucky, turning to Steve one afternoon and whispering brokenly, “I don’t know how to plan a funeral.”

Steve’s mom forces them to stay with them until Bucky’s grandmother comes in from Indiana. Bucky’s dad’s been gone for three years now—same as Steve’s, dead in the same attack in Iraq. Bucky spends those weeks on autopilot, mechanical, doing everything he’s told without a single complaint, sticking close to Steve and Becca, not a single protest leaving his lips when his grandmother takes to enveloping him in hugs at just the right times.

Steve remembers the funeral, the black suits and ties, pressed and starched so neatly neither of them could breathe. Before, Bucky would have grumbled about the clothes. Now, he puts them on without a word, eyes blank, skin paler than usual.

Steve goes with him to the burial, stands slightly behind him as he tosses a handful of dirt onto his mother’s coffin. His eyes begin to sting, and he wishes it were raining. It doesn’t make sense for it to be sunny, not today. Becca’s crying, tears streaming down her face silently. Bucky doesn’t shed a tear, just stares and stares at the ground.

And then Bucky seizes his hand in an iron grip. It’s the hand he’d used to throw the dirt, but Steve doesn’t care, just tangles their fingers together, tight, and cries for him.

 

*

 

It’s Steve’s turn to work the Fourth of July this year, to Bucky’s eternal annoyance. Steve doesn’t mind so much, really; he’s off tomorrow anyway and he can go out and celebrate then, but Bucky takes it as a personal affront.

“S’not right, having to work on your birthday,” Bucky mutters. “What’s the point of only working three damn nights a week if you have to go on your birthday?”

“ _You’re_ working too,” Steve points out.

“But it’s not _my_ birthday, is it,” Bucky retorts.

“S’fine, Buck,” Steve says, refilling his water bottle. “Seriously.”

“We’re still watching the fireworks,” Bucky tells him, dead serious, “I’ll drag you outta there myself if I have to.”

“Yes, Bucky,” says Steve dutifully.

It turns out to be a quiet night, which always makes the hours drag by ever so slowly, the ticking of the secondhand on the wall clock echoing loudly in the background. It is, he muses, almost as though the babies know it’s his birthday and are making a valiant effort at being _good_. He glances briefly at the monitors above their cribs, and mechanically charts his assessments.

“I’d have called in sick,” Dr. Banner says mildly, leaning against the wall.

“You practically live here.” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “I know for a fact that you work all the holidays and just about all the weekends.”

“But I want to. _You_ , on the other hand, look miserable.”

“I don’t,” protests Steve, insulted, “and I am _not_ , I—”

“You don’t have to love this job every single night, you know. God knows I don’t.” Dr. Banner takes off his glasses and tucks them into his chest pocket. “Least of all on your birthday.”

Steve sags back against his chair, clicks the ‘save’ button on his charting. “Yeah,” he admits, slowly. “It’s—a little tough, tonight.”

“I think it’ll get better,” Dr. Banner says, lightly.” At any rate, at least you’ll be able to see the—”

“ _Fireworks_ ,” Bucky announces with glee, charging into the room and knocking into Dr. Banner on his way in. He stops dead in his tracks, barely managing to keep the cup of coffee in his hands from spilling. He watches Dr. Banner warily. “Er. Sorry. Uh. About that,” he says slowly, because Dr. Banner’s wild mood swings are a legend even down in the emergency department.

Dr. Banner fixes him with an unreadable look for the longest five seconds of Steve’s life before inclining his head in a slight nod and leaving the room.

Bucky and Steve stare at each other before bursting into hysterical, uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh god,” Bucky gasps out, “my life literally just flashed before my eyes.”

“You—” Steve starts, but is cut off by the sharp _pop-pop-pop_ of the fireworks. Bucky wraps a hand around Steve’s wrist and tugs him in the direction of the stairwell that has always given them the best view.

“Nat—” Steve calls out, halfheartedly, and Natasha peeks out from the room, waving at him with wry amusement.

“She said yes, I already told her,” Bucky says, pulling at him impatiently, and Steve goes with him. Bucky flings the door open and ushers Steve in. It’s hot, and muggy, due to the lack of air conditioning, but the floor-to-ceiling windows boast an impressive view of the fireworks over Brooklyn Bridge.

Steve makes himself comfortable on the top step, resting his chin in his hands. Bucky settles in beside him, handing him the coffee.

“Gets better every year,” Steve murmurs, taking a small sip. It is warm and comforting down his throat, even in the stairwell.

“Would be better from the park,” Bucky retorts, just to be an ass.

Steve jabs him in the ribs. “You complain about the crowds every time we go.”

“S’the principle of the thing,” Bucky sniffs.

They sit there for a good fifteen minutes, watching the fireworks erupt in bursts of color across the dark sky. They’ve done this every year since they were kids—at the park, at the hospital, or even at home, on the television. Steve still remembers his twelfth birthday with fondness—the warm summer air, the grass crunching beneath his feet, sitting with his parents and Bucky’s family, and the way Bucky had turned to him with braces lining his crooked teeth and said, amidst the roar of the crowd—

“Happy birthday, punk,” and Steve blinks away the memories to see Bucky smiling softly at him. Steve swallows.

“Thanks, jerk,” he manages, but his tongue feels thick and useless in his mouth. He stands up, dusting his pants off, mainly to give himself something to do. “I—should go.”

“Me too,” Bucky sighs. “Fireworks and alcohol? ER’s probably busy as hell.”

Steve offers him a wan smile at that, and turns to go back inside. He swipes his badge through the reader and steps back into the air conditioning. But Bucky pulls at his shirtsleeve, and smiles at him again.

“Seriously. Happy birthday, Steve.”

Steve breathes in and out slowly, desperate to commit this moment to memory: the dark stairwell, the last flickers of the fireworks in the sky, and Bucky, in his black scrubs with perpetual bags beneath his eyes, his palm warm against Steve’s elbow.

“Thanks, Bucky,” he says, feeling indescribably and impossibly full. He feels as though he ought to say something else, _anything_ else, but everything seems inadequate, somehow.

By the time the words manifest themselves, Bucky’s gone, and Steve’s drawing labs at two in the morning. His baby—named Stephen, of all things—wails at him.

“You and me both, kid,” he says feelingly.

 

*

 

“I’m going out,” Bucky says from the doorway to the kitchen. Steve hums something underneath his breath as he concentrates on the chicken he’s currently frying on a pan.

“Where to?” he asks absentmindedly, as he flips the chicken over.

“Movies,” Bucky says. “And, ah. Don’t wait up for me.”

Steve finally turns to face him and immediately wishes he hadn’t done so. Because Bucky is—he’s dressed to kill, dressed to look good and he knows it. Steve lets the corner of his mouth tilt up in a half-smile. “Someone sounds confident.”

“Confidence is half the battle,” Bucky tells him with a smirk, and Steve is drawn back to middle school and high school, when his mouth had been too big for his body (Bucky would argue his mouth is _still_ too big for his body, but that’s a conversation for later) and Bucky had navigated puberty with an easy charm and grace, despite the acne.

“Well,” Steve says, after the silence has stayed too long, “enjoy your night.”

Bucky hovers in the doorway. “You sure you don’t wanna come with? S’last minute, but I’m sure she’s got a friend—”

“Nah,” Steve says, “I’m tired.”

“You don’t look so good,” Bucky says, frowning. “Are you getting another migraine? Seriously, I can stay in. S’no big deal.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Steve says, exasperated. “I’ll take something for the pain, I’ll have a quiet night in. Watch a movie or two. You don’t have to—to trouble yourself—”

Bucky makes an angry noise. “You aren’t a—a trouble, what the hell, Steve.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, because he can’t look at him any longer. “Please. Just go.”

Bucky’s face is contorted into a scowl, but Steve holds his ground.

“Your chicken’s burnt,” Bucky finally says before stalking away. Steve listens for the harsh slam of the front door before turning off the stove.

 

*

 

Steve takes his dinner on the couch, only half-watching _MasterChef_ on the television, poking halfheartedly at his chicken. (Bucky was right: he had burned it.) He sighs.

It’s funny. Bucky always berated him for being unable to keep his mouth shut, and now he can’t seem to do anything _but_.

The words seem stuck in his throat. _I don’t want you to go out_ , is what he should’ve said, _let’s just stay in and watch_ Parks and Rec _, let’s make pancakes and waffles for dinner._

He sets his half-eaten plate on the coffee table and flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

_“This tastes disgusting,”_ Gordon Ramsay declares, spitting chunks of ravioli out.

 

*

 

When he wakes up the following morning, his comforter from his bedroom is draped over him and he can hear Bucky in the shower.

He smiles at the gesture and wanders into the kitchen to make coffee for the two of them.

 

*

 

Today is Sunday, and Bucky’s just getting back from work and Steve’s pulling on a pair of jogging pants and socks. Bucky’s got faint circles beneath his eyes, face twisted in fury and Steve tilts his head towards the kitchen, where he’s already brewed a pot of coffee.

“What happened?” he asks.

Bucky pauses, and Steve looks up at him. “Was a shit night,” Bucky says, pouring himself a mug of hot coffee. He takes a gulp. “Car wreck,” he adds, and then, “idiot was texting and driving,” and then, “the other one didn’t make it.”

“Shit,” Steve murmurs, and moves to stand next to him, not knowing what to do.

“And, you know, they gave me the driver?” Bucky laughs, and Steve _aches._ “We started coding him, and I was standing over him, doing fuckin’ compressions, tryin’ to save his fuckin’ life and hoping against all hell he’d die on the table because I didn’t think he deserved to live. Like _I_ get to decide who lives or dies. Like I’m in Afghanistan all over again—”

Steve doesn’t say a word.

“He didn’t,” Bucky says. “The other car—one’s in critical condition. But her sister—she died, at the hospital. Was pregnant. 28 weeks. I think they tried to deliver. Maybe brought the baby up to the NICU, I—I don’t know. Fuck. _Fuck_.”

Steve’s had those kinds of babies. It’s always a rough course, if they do make it through that first night. “Bucky,” he starts, and then impulsively grabs his hand, which is clenched so tightly it’s blanched. He pries his fist open. “Don’t—just—”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, dismissively. He downs the rest of his coffee without a flinch. “Just gotta sleep it off.” He stands. “Not hungry, I’ll just—”

“Bucky,” Steve says again, squeezing his hand and refusing to let him go.

“I’m fine,” Bucky mutters, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand. “Steve, damn it, let _go_ ,” and he wrenches his hand back forcefully. Steve stumbles from the unexpectedness of the force but manages to catch himself at the last second. Bucky curses under his breath and stalks towards the bathroom. Steve listens to the sound of running water and collapses into a nearby chair.

He doesn’t go jogging.

 

*

 

Steve finds a box of brownie mix in their pantry, follows the instructions on the back, and lets the smell of chocolate spread across their apartment as he ends up watching _House Hunters International._ Bucky remains asleep (or, at least, quiet) in his room, and Steve keeps the TV at a muted volume.

At around two o’clock, Bucky’s door creaks open and Steve sits up straight. He listens as Bucky pads out to the living room and throws himself into the couch next to Steve. His hair is messy, sticks up every which way, and smells of shampoo.

“I’m fine,” he says before Steve can say anything. “Sorry for—back there.” He looks slightly well-rested, at least, so Steve just nods in acknowledgment.

“You want brownies?” he asks.

“When’ve I ever said no?” Bucky replies, which is a fair point. Steve brings the pan over to the couch with a spoon. Bucky raises his eyebrows.

Steve shrugs. “S’all yours.”

Bucky raises his hand in a lazy salute and digs into the pan. Steve watches him through his bangs, the slight tension still evident in his shoulders, the tiredness in the lines of his face. Bucky’s always been beautiful without trying.

And then he turns to say something to Steve, mouth still full of chocolate, and it’s too quick, too sudden, and Steve doesn’t have the time to shove his guards up and hide everything away. It’s too late; he knows Bucky’s seen, and Bucky knows him too well for him to pull off a lie. So he plants his feet on their floor (it’s dirty, he thinks distantly; it needs to be mopped) and looks right back, bold and open and daring.

Bucky closes his eyes and sets the brownie pan on the floor. “Steve.”

“I’m not sorry,” Steve says steadily, “I mean—I am, if it makes you feel uncomfortable, but they’re my feelings, _mine_ , and I’m not ashamed.”

“Why the hell would you be sorry?” Bucky sounds genuinely confused. “I was just gonna say, why didn’t you ever say anything?”

Steve frowns. “Why would I? Didn’t wanna— _ruin_ anything. You weren’t supposed to know—”

“Ruin? Ruin what?”

“This!” Steve spreads his hands out. “Our—our friendship—”

“That’s supposed to be _my_ line!” Bucky exclaims, and Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “What are you even talking about?”

There’s a beat of silence, and then:

“I thought you didn’t want me,” Bucky says at the same time that Steve says, “How could you ever want _me_ , when I can’t—”

They spend a horrifyingly long moment gaping at each other.

Bucky recovers first. “If you think I want you any less just because you won’t let me put my dick in your ass, you’re even dumber than I thought,” he says, and Steve chokes.

“Oh my _god_ , Bucky,” he says, turning beet red, and looks up to see Bucky smiling at him, soft. It’s a wonder he’s never realized what it meant before. “You’re terrible,” he says, halfheartedly.

“My mother said you’d be terrible for me,” Bucky says quietly, fondly, and Steve reaches to take his hand.

“Your mother loved me.”

“Not so much when I spent half the time in detention from saving your ass.”

Steve smiles at him, and Bucky slings an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in. Steve goes willingly. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” Bucky says honestly.

“I know you won’t,” Steve says.

“Can I—er—kiss you?”

Steve’s smile widens. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

Bucky leans in, kissing him once, then twice, and it’s soft and pleasant and warm. “You taste like chocolate,” Steve murmurs, and Bucky laughs and says, “You taste like Listerine.”

“Charming,” Steve says, unable to stop smiling.

Bucky moves so he’s resting against the cushions, and Steve’s pressed up against his side. On TV, the couple selects a beach house in Costa Rica. It’s a lovely home, Steve thinks, hazy from Bucky’s kisses.

“How long?” Steve wonders, a few minutes later.

“Tenth grade, probably,” Bucky says lightly, and Steve moves away, aghast.

“ _Buck_ ,” he says, but Bucky just shrugs.

“Didn’t wanna push, or make it seem like I wasn’t respecting you.” Bucky nudges him in the side. “You went out with a couple of people, but never looked at _me_ that way. Then you had Peggy, and. I was okay. No lack of company, in case you forgot.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“I still feel like an ass,” Steve mutters.

Bucky shifts so that he’s got his feet in Steve’s lap. “You’re here now,” he says simply. “Also, you can make it up to me with a foot massage.”

“Yeah, no,” Steve says, shoving Bucky’s feet away.

 

*

 

“ _I’m bulletproof, nothing to lose!”_ Bucky sings in the shower, waking Steve up after a fitful two hours of sleep, coming home late from the hospital. “ _Fire away, fire away!_ ”

Steve buries his head beneath his pillow, and even pulls at the collar of his shirt in an attempt to strangle himself with it. Bucky continues alternately humming and hollering, and five minutes later he comes back into the room with a towel around his neck and sweat pants hanging low on his waist. Steve glares at him balefully.

“I was trying to sleep,” he says crossly.

“You’re off for four days,” Bucky says lightly, tossing his wet towel directly onto Steve’s head. Steve yelps and sits up fully. “Anyway, I’m sorely disappointed. You were supposed to come in there and be all impressed by my vocal prowess.”

Steve is far too sleep-deprived for this. “I’m not reenacting _Pitch Perfect_ with you.” A pause. “And you can’t sing worth shit, Buck, I’m sorry but it’s true.”

“Oh how will I ever go on with my life,” Bucky deadpans, and catches the towel that Steve hurls at him with ease. “Whaddaya want for breakfast? Or—lunch? Brunch, isn’t that a thing?”

“Eggs Benedict with a homemade hollandaise sauce,” Steve says snidely, and Bucky says, “Ah, yes, of course, pancakes.”

Steve flops back on the pillows of Bucky’s bed, bursting with the warmth of it all. Bucky follows him, pressing him into the sheets and swallowing Steve’s laughter, fingers brushing his collarbone.

“Morning breath,” he says in mock disgust, pulling away, and Steve halfheartedly swipes at his chest.

“Pancakes,” he says eloquently, and Bucky moves off him, heaving a sigh.

“You’re a hard man to please, Steve Rogers,” he says. Steve flips him the middle finger. “But I think I’ll keep you around anyway.”

“Much appreciated,” says Steve dryly.

 

*

 

Bucky ends up burning half of the pancakes.

(It’s mostly Steve’s fault.)

“Well, I’ve kept you around this long,” Steve says with a long-suffering sigh, “and it’d take way too much time to find a replacement pancake-maker, so you’ll just have to do. But let it be known that you’re treading on thin ice, Barnes, and this is your official warning.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bucky drawls, hand resting on the small of his back. Steve leans into it.

 

*

 

Steve, and Bucky—

Well.

They end up okay.

 

**Fin**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [nuitdenovembre](http://nuitdenovembre.tumblr.com) for looking this over! 
> 
> Title comes from "Better Together" by Jack Johnson.
> 
> [Come say hi](http://fireblazie.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


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